


The Boy With The Book

by colonelmoran



Category: The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonelmoran/pseuds/colonelmoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or "How Destiny Came to Be Affianced", a Curious Love Story for the Modern Age</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stave I: Crossroads

            “Who ya gonna marry, Gabby?” asked Roger. “When you’re a grownup, I mean?”

            “Not you, Roger,” said Gabrielle. Roger, her schoolmate, was short for his (seven and a half) age and dishwater blond, with ears that stuck out like wing mirrors. Right now, those ears were red with cold. The autumn wind was keen that day and the walk home from school felt very long indeed.

            “”Course not me,” said Roger, disdainfully. “Who’d want to get married to a girl?” Gabrielle, dainty and cinnamon brown with curls like springs, stuck her tongue out at him.

“Lot’s of people want to marry girls,” she told him.

Roger shrugged. “Okay. But who do _you_ want marry, Gabby?”

Gabrielle thought about the question. Roger, who knew that she could spend hours just thinking, waited patiently. At that moment, they came to end of Habersham Street. Ahead of them, the street’s name changed to Wicker Lane, to their left, it intersected with Collie Avenue, and on the right, there was the park, red and yellow and rustling.

At the crossroads was a boy with a book. He stood calmly in the air some twelve feet above the middle of the intersection, sandaled feet firmly planted. He wore a long robe the color of wood smoke, with a deep cowl that left his face in shadow. His face was pale and elfin and it was hard to tell how old he was. Older than she was, Gabrielle was certain. There was a white cloth tied across his eyes like a blindfold.

And then there was the book. It was the size of a tombstone and must have been quite heavy, but the boy carried it without apparent effort. It was bound in leather, or something quite like leather, and a dark chain ran from a ring in the book’s spine to a shackle on the boy’s wrist.

“Him,” said Gabrielle, pointing.

“Who?” asked Roger, squinting into the wind.

“That boy up there. The one with the big book.”

“I can’t see anyone, Gabby,” said Roger sadly. He was used to this. Gabby had better eyes than most people. She saw the people who live in the graveyards and the things that sit on the shoulders of the mad. She saw the revelers at midsummer and the wanderers at Halloween and on clear winter nights she could hear the angels singing. Roger never saw any of these, but he believed what Gabrielle said about them because she was his friend.

“He’s there all right,” Gabrielle assured him. “He looks very serious, but I can’t see his eyes and…oh!”

“What?” Roger demanded, “What is it?”

“He hasn’t got a shadow.”

Roger thought about this. He couldn’t think for nearly as long as Gabrielle, but he tried.

“And you’re gonna marry him?” he asked eventually.

“Yes,” said Gabrielle.

“How d’you know?”

“I just do.”

The floating boy turned his head to watch them as they walked home. His face was grave as he did so, but then, it always was.


	2. Stave II: Mirrors

            Gabrielle checked her appearance a final time and went to get her coat. Traffic in the city was worse than usual, which was saying something, so she arrived at the theatre with only a minute to spare. Breathless and flushed, both from the cold and the last dash up the stairs, Gabrielle knocked cautiously on the door labeled “Production Stage Manager”.

            “Come in,” said a brusque female voice, and Gabrielle obeyed. At a large desk heaped with papers sat an olive skinned woman in her late thirties with thick-rimmed glasses a severe wedge of black hair.

            Gabrielle swallowed. “Hello, I’m Gabrielle Toeval. We spoke on the phone earlier…”

            “Yes, I remember,” the woman said “I thought you were supposed to be here at eight.”

            “You told me eight-thirty when we…” said Gabrielle began.

            “Well too late to worry about that know. Take a seat,” instructed the woman. Gabrielle did so.

            “Any previous experience in stage management?” the woman asked.

            “Well, I did stage management for student productions all through college and high school…”

            “And you’re fresh out of college, are you?”

            “Pretty much, yes.”

            “Hmm,” said the woman, drawing a little black mark on a sheet of paper in front of her. “And what have you been doing in the mean time?”

            “Well, I…”

            Twenty minutes later, Gabrielle was back out in the chilly air, walking disconsolately towards home. Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her shirt. She drew it out and glanced at the number before answering it.

            “Hi Roger,” she said bemusedly.

            “Hi Gabby. Did you get the job?”

            “I don’t think so,” said Gabrielle said. “I’ll have to ask dad for another check pretty soon.”

            “That blows,” said Roger. “I’m sorry Gabby.”

            She shrugged, though she knew he wouldn’t see it. “I’ll live. How are you and Manny doing?”

            “He’s still asleep. The bar got searched by the police last night and he didn’t get out of there until the crack of dawn.”

            “Jesus Roger, you sure living with this guy is a good idea?”

            “He just serves the drinks, Gabby. Besides, I didn’t call to talk about Manny.”

            “Oh?”

            “I think I’ve found one.”

            “One what?”

            “An Aphrodite’s Glass. Down on Coppice Street in this little antique shop.”

            “What? Are you sure?”

            “Nuh-uh. I just saw it in the window as I was walking by. But it looked like the engravings you showed me.”

            “Woodcut,” said Gabrielle distractedly, “Not engraving. Coppice Street, you said? Isn’t that the one by the river?”

            “Yup. Are you going there now?”

            “I…” Gabrielle hesitated. She really didn’t have the money to throw after this. But it was her first lead in a long time. “Yes, I am. If I don’t call back in an hour…”

            “I know what to do,” said Roger with a tiny sigh.

            The antique shop was small, painted a dark green, with dusty windows and the legend “Oddments and Endings” over the door in gilt. Most people would not have noticed this, because most people would not have given the shop a second glance. Even those who did so probably wouldn’t have seen the shimmering green and silver serpent, easily the size of an anaconda, which lay coiled on the doormat. Gabrielle peered through the window until she spotted the shopkeeper and waved to attract his attention. She pointed at the recumbent serpent and raised her eyebrows in a question. The little man, whiskered, bald, and bespectacled, nodded encouragingly, so Gabrielle risked stepping over the creature and into the shop.

            “Sorry about that,” said the shopkeeper, bustling over. “She’s a naga, a guardian spirit, don’t you know? Quite harmless, except to burglars. I call her Jenny.”

            “Jenny?” asked Gabrielle.

            The little man shrugged. “It’s a name. And what my yours be, miss? It’s not often I get a visitor in here who has the Sight.”

            “Gabrielle Toeval,” she said and shook the proffered hand.

            “And what can I do for you, Miss Toeval?”

            “I’m looking for something specific actually. A hand mirror, silver with red stones. It would be shaped like…”

            “…a heart,” said the shopkeeper, nodding. “Let me get it for you.” He bustled off once more, and shortly returned with the mirror.

“It’s a very nice piece,” he told her as he steered them towards the counter. “Hardly tarnished, though as near as I could tell it dates back to Renaissance Italy, not that I can prove that mind you, or I’d have sold the thing to the museums long since.”

“Greece,” said Gabrielle absently, staring the polished metal. “And it’s older than the Renaissance. I’ll give you two-hundred for it.”

“Now, now Miss Toeval, a man must eat, must he not? I couldn’t possible let this treasure go for less than five-hundred.”

“Two-hundred and fifty,” countered Gabrielle. “I’m short of funds this month.”

“Really miss, I’ll need at least four-hundred or I won’t be able to make rent.”

“Fine,” Gabrielle sighed, “I’ll stretch to three-hundred fifty.”

“Done,” said the shopkeeper and they shook hands again.

Back at her apartment, Gabrielle took the mirror out of its wrapping paper and laid it carefully on the kitchen table. It gleamed like puddled mercury in the lamplight.

“Well, no time like the present” Gabrielle said. She picked up the mirror by its molded handle and held it close to her face.

“Epithumia,” she whispered, letting her warm breath fog the surface of the metal.

Gabrielle saw a flicker of motion behind her in the clouded mirror and felt a rush of air. Then a voice said,

“…and you tell my little sister that if she doesn’t get her hooks out of Japan this fucking decade, I will kick her flabby ass to Tartarus and back.”

Gabrielle turned. There was a stranger lounging in her armchair, talking on a slim black cellphone. The stranger was slender and fair skinned with coal black hair and high cheekbones. It (Gabrielle couldn’t quite tell whether it was male or female) wore a crimson blazer and tight grey dress pants with calf-high black boots. The oddest thing about this stranger though, was its eyes. They were a tawny gold, like a hunting cat’s, and their gaze seemed to go right through Gabrielle and leave her full of holes.

“Well, hello darling,” purred the stranger, its voice dark and smoky. It slipped the phone into the pocket of its blazer and sauntered over to where Gabrielle stood.

“Are you Aphrodite?” Gabrielle asked, suddenly wishing she’d done just a little bit more research.

“Her mother actually,” said the stranger, picking up the mirror. “It’s a long story. Let’s just say that her father was a real prick.”

“Ladies of torment, but this is an old compact,” it added, peering hard at the markings on the mirror’s handle. Then it flashed out a blood red tongue and ran it slowly over the silver pane. Gabrielle shivered. The stranger was beautiful, in a knife’s edge kind of way that made her flesh creep.

As she watched, the metal of the mirror began to tarnish and corrode where the stranger’s tongue had touched it. The corruption spread, like a flame licking across paper, and within moments, the mirror was nothing but a handful of metal flakes that the stranger swept up and poured into the waste bin.

“Now for my part,” said the stranger, turning to Gabrielle once more. “Who do you want?”

Wordlessly, Gabrielle pointed to a sketch that hung on the wall of her flat. It showed a man of indeterminate age dressed in a long robe and carrying a book.

“Him.”

The stranger turned and, seeing the drawing, its yellow eyes widened. “Him?”

Then the stranger began to laugh. It was a wild laugh, deep and throaty and utterly mad. It echoed off the plaster walls and the dark side of the moon. It shook the stranger’s body like a ragdoll until, breathless, it slumped back against the kitchen table, tears running down its pale cheeks.

“You want him? Really? Ladies of pain, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a millennium.”

“So can I have him?” asked Gabrielle, unmoved.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You just can’t, all right? Look, if you’re after a bookish type, I can set you up with Thoth, no problem. Hell, if you’re into the strong and silent thing, I can even get you hitched with Duma. They’re a fallen angel so you don’t have turn up you pretty little nose at them. ‘Course, if you choose Duma, you’ll have look out for Remiel, but hey if you wanna live dangerously…”

“I just want him,” said Gabrielle. “No one else.”

“I’m telling you, you can’t have him,” the stranger insisted.

“I get to choose, right?” said Gabrielle, more firmly. “Those are the terms of the compact.”

“Yes,” agreed the stranger, “Those are the terms, but…”

“But?”

“He’s my brother. My big, cranky brother. I’m not supposed to go messing with his affairs.”

“Destiny? Destiny is your brother?”

“Well duh,” said the stranger, “Didn’t you do your homework before you started on this wild goose chase? I’m Desire. I’m the good-looking one of the family. Destiny’s the stick-in-the-mud, Death’s the little mother, Dream’s the diva, Despair…but I shouldn’t be boring you with family gossip. Point is, I try and pull anything fishy on Destiny and they’ll all be at my throat quicker than a chimp can orgasm.”

“Too bad," Gabrielle said.

“What?” said Desire.

“Too bad,” Gabrielle repeated. “I’m not changing my mind just because you’re too chicken. I’m going to marry Destiny. You can help me or try to break the terms of your compact.”

“Look honey,” said Desire, no longer smiling, “Even if I was willing to stick my neck out for you, which I’m not, I don’t know if even I could get Destiny to fall in love. He’s…he’s what the Nipps would call _soshoku danshi,_ a grass eater. He doesn’t do relationships.”

“I don’t need him to do relationships,” said Gabrielle. “I need him to love me.”

“Why?” asked Desire, glancing around the neat little apartment and then back at neat little Gabrielle. “What does a girl like you see in an old codger like Destiny?”

“I saw him when I was seven, standing at a crossroads,” Gabrielle explained. “I still see him sometimes. And he looks so serious, I can’t help but want to make him laugh.”

Desire watched her silently for a long moment, biting one blood red lip in thought. Then it said,

“Fine. But we’re gonna need some help.”


	3. Stave III: Gateways

            Gabrielle was sitting in Ms. Morrison sixth grade classroom, with the flickering lights and the hospital smell, staring at the chalkboard. On it was written the list of all the work that was due today. Gabrielle realized she hadn’t done any of it. She hoped Ms. Morrison wouldn’t call on her.

            “Gabriella,” Ms. Morrison called (she always got her name wrong), “Would you kindly explain the answer to number one for the benefit of your fellow students?”

            Gabrielle tired to find number one on the chalkboard, to see if she perhaps might know the answer just by luck, but to her dismay she found that the assignment list was now written in some strange form of hieroglyphics.

“Um, well I…” she began.

            “Speak up, Gabrielle,” said Ms. Morrison, and looking up at her Gabrielle realized that Ms. Morrison was actually the testy stage manager from her interview. “No one can hear what you are saying. You’d better come up here, so we can all hear you properly.”

            Gabrielle nodded, blushing furiously, and hurried up to the front of the classroom. She turned to face the rows of desks and suddenly remembered that she’d forgotten to put on clothes that morning. She tired to cover herself with her hands, while the class hooted and jeered. She could see May Brown sneering at her in that icily superior way and even little Roger, but this wasn’t the Roger she knew. This Roger had horns and the legs of a goat and he…

            The classroom door banged open.

“Well, there you are,” drawled Desire, lounging against the doorframe, a cigarette between its lips, “Wondered what was keeping you.”

The teacher and students stood transfixed. Desire reached calmly up and tore down the American flag that hung over the door. It strolled over and wrapped the flag calmly around Gabrielle’s waist, knotting it tight like a sarong, then handed her its blazer.

“Come on,” Desire said. “We got places to be.”

           Gabrielle settled the jacket around her shoulders and buttoned it closed. “Where are we?” she asked.

            “Asleep in your apartment,” said Desire as the school setting began to fade into mist. “At least you are. This is the Dreaming, honey. Now let’s go.”

            A path emerged from the mist and they followed it until it resolved itself into a little game trail leading through a wood of birch and alder. After a while, they came upon a man hanging by his neck from stout rope that was tied to a tree branch. He was a portly man, in well-worn overalls, with a dark scraggly beard and dark scraggly hair. His face was pale and swollen, clearly dead, but he waved cheerfully at them as they drew level.

            “Hello sir-ma’am,” he wheezed. “I d-didn’t know you were c-coming to stay.”

            “Hello Abel,” said Desire coolly, “I didn’t know I was coming either. Where is the big shot keeping his Palace of Malice these days?”

            “Down b-by the water meadows, sir-ma’am, where the Teary Brook meets the Wishing River. He’s m-making a boat, I think. I wanted to go watch but Caine didn’t w-want to.” He gestured at the noose around his neck and shrugged.

            “Thanks Abel,” said Desire. “You just hang in there, okay?”

            “Yes sir-ma’am,” said the dead man.

            Gabrielle wasn’t sure for how long they traveled after that. Desire seemed to know where they were going, though the geography seemed vague and sometimes nonsensical. At last, she glimpsed a cluster of spires poking up beyond a line of low rolling hills.

            “Is that the place?” she asked Desire.

            Desire nodded. “My brother’s bachelor pad, yep.” It seemed to Gabrielle, that Desire was nervous, for the first time since it had appeared in her flat. “I’ll do the talking. You just follow my lead.”

            They rounded the hill and Gabrielle saw a castle built of white stone on the shore of a broad lake, thick with lilies and weeping willows. The castle had seven towers, capped with tall spires of dragonfly-blue, and windows of colored glass. There was no drawbridge, but a stone ramp that led up to a set of double doors, old and heavy. Before the doors stood three creatures. The first was a griffin, heavy pawed and hook beaked, its fur-feathers brindled black and gold. The second was a wyvern, a dull red worm with leathern wings and teeth like needles. The last was a hippogriff, alabaster and proud.

            “Declare yourselves, visitors to the Heart of the Dreaming,” said the griffin. Its voice was a deep rumble that Gabrielle felt moving through her bones like distant thunder.

            “You know who I am,” said Desire, taking a drag on its cigarette. “I’m here on family business.”

            “And the mortal?” hissed the wyvern. Its voice was the rasp of a whetstone.

            “One of my supplicants,” Desire told him. “So keep your claws off her, if you know what’s good for you.”

            “Very well, master-mistress,” said the hippogriff in a voice of silver trumpets. “You may pass. He will meet you in the throne room.”

            “I’ll bet he will,” muttered Desire. It dropped its cigarette and ground it out with the heel of its boot. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

            The great gates swung wide and Gabrielle and Desire walked in. The entrance hall looked quite long, but before they had been walking for a dozen heartbeats, they found it opening out into a high ceilinged chamber with tall windows of stained glass that showed different scenes every time that Gabrielle looked at them. At the far end of the room was a flight a stairs, made of some lacy metal work, that didn’t seem supported by anything. They led to a floating platform whereon was set a great chair, hewn from the same white stone as the castle itself.

            And on the chair sat a man. Like Desire, he was pale and fine featured, but his hair was snow white and it floated on the breezeless air like the tendrils of an anemone, stirred by the rising tide. His eyes were deep pools of shadow in which lights, like distant stars, glimmered faintly. He wore a white cloak with a heavy mantle, fastened about his throat with a green stone. At his side hung a drawstring pouch and on his knees lay a helm of ivory and smoked glass.

            “Sister-brother,” said Dream, “You were not invited to my realm. What mischief are you making?”

            “No mischief, dear brother,” said Desire, with a vulpine grin. “I come to you with a proposition.”

            “I do not play the games you younger three indulge in, sister-brother. You know this has not changed.”

            “Oh come on, Danny boy,” said Desire, bouncing up the stairs to lean on the arm of Dream’s throne. “You got learn to loosen up a little. And this isn’t just any game. This will be the match of the century, mark my words.”

            “I mark them. But I am not moved by them,” said Dream.

            “Aren’t you even curious to hear my offer, Danny boy?” Desire asked.

            “No. I am curious to know how you come to be trespassing on lands that I have explicitly forbidden you from, sister-brother.”

            “I hitched a ride with her,” said Desire, jerking its thumb at Gabrielle.

            “A dreamer?’ said Dream, rising from the throne and descending towards Gabrielle.

            “Not just any dreamer, dear brother,” drawled Desire, settling itself in the vacated chair. “She’s a true seer. A strong one too, I reckon.”

            “Indeed,” said Dream, studying Gabrielle’s face. “What is your name, young woman?”

            “Gabrielle Toeval, sir,” said Gabrielle, folding her arms nervously across the front of Desire’s blazer.

            Dream stuck out one arm without lifting his eyes from her and called, “Matthew. Attend me.”

            Down from the high ceiling flapped a raven. It settled on Dream’s wrist and croaked, “What’s up boss?”

            “I just wish to test something Matthew,” replied Dream. “Gabrielle, what is Matthew?”

            “A raven,” said Gabrielle. “A raven that used to be human. And…and I think he’s actually dead.”

            “Well, shoot,” croaked Matthew. “She’s sure got my number, eh boss?”

            “So it appears,” agreed Dream. He turned back to Desire, who was lighting another cigarette. “A true seer of that strength is certainly a rarity. But I fail to understand your interest in her, sister-brother.”

            “She invoked one of my compacts. She…” explained Desire, “…is in love.”

            “With whom?” asked Dream, resettling the raven on his shoulder.

            “You’re going to laugh.”

            “I doubt it.”

            “It’s Destiny,” said Desire.

            Dream did not laugh, but the corners of his pale mouth did quirk up into a definite smile. “Destiny? Truly? That is…unusual.”

            “Un-flippin’-believable you mean,” said Desire, hoisting itself to its feet. “So what do say, Dreamy? Wanna help me get this girl under the old boy’s habit?”

            “I say this project is a dangerous folly,” said Dream, but he was fingering the green stone thoughtfully.

            “Yeah,” agreed Desire, “but I’m stuck with it. Compact, remember?”

            “That is your own affair, sister-brother. Not mine.”

            “Look, I just need a venue, okay?” said Desire. “I’m not asking you to get hands on. I just need you to throw us a little shindig so I can…do my thing.”

            “Have you spoken to the others about this?” asked Dream. “Surely Despair would…”

            “Despair? Throw a party?” snorted Desire. “No, that couldn’t possibly end badly. Besides, the little toad has been less tractable of late. No brother, you’re the first one I’ve talked to.”

            “Hmm,” said Dream, “And if I do this thing, what will you offer me in return?”

            “Anything you desire, brother. You know I’m good for it.”


	4. Stave IV: Masques

            The night of the dance, Gabrielle thought she’d never get to sleep. She lay on the bed in her apartment, a bowl of earth under her right hand, a bowl of salt under her left, and tried to calm her thundering heart. The earth and salt were anchors, Desire had explained. If something went wrong--which Desire had assured her was “almost unlikely”--they would help her mind find its way back to her body.

            Gabrielle wondered what kind of things could go wrong at a party in the Dreaming. She wondered what kind of people would be there. She wondered if there would be things to eat. Was food in dreams safe to eat? Would poison in dreams still be dangerous? Was it likely that anyone would try to poison her?

            With a sigh she rolled over, and found herself face to face with a small golden animal that said, “Krawk?”

            With a yelp, Gabrielle surged to her feet, tripped over a cedar chest, and only caught her balance by seizing the stone sill of the tower window. Outside the window, the strange constellations of the Dreaming glittered against the velvety blackness.

            “Well,” said Gabrielle, straightening up and brushing herself off, “Here I am.”

            The chamber was one in Dream’s palace that, at Desire’s insistence, he had created for her. The flagstone floor was chilly, despite the fire roaring on the hearth and the heavy tapestries that hung on three walls. The little gold gargoyle that had startled her, fluttered up off her bedside table to perch on top of the wardrobe as Gabrielle took out her clothes for the evening.

            There was a long twilight colored gown, sleeveless and shining. It was fastened at the throat with a brooch of white gold and lilac jade. Over her shoulders went a woven wrap of white wool that Desire said was made from the beards of the Jotuns, but was wonderfully warm and supple. On her feet she wore leather slippers, good for dancing. And for her face, she had a mask.

            Oh yes, this was to be a dance in mask. Desire had insisted and Dream had agreed. Gabrielle’s mask was not one face but three, the middle sharing an eye with each of its neighbors. They were the faces of women, neither older nor young. They might have been carven from marble; they had that same cold pride in the cast of their features. Gabrielle tied her hair up, as much as she could, into an elegant knot at the back of her head. Then she put on the mask and went downstairs to join the throng.

            Dream had stretched the throne room somehow, until it easily held a dance floor and several long tables laden with custards and cakes, games pies and venison, rice balls and curries, sherbets and jellies, fresh fruit and pitchers of cream. At the head of the hall, just to the left of the dais, were the musicians. A bearded man with cockerel mask played the trombone, or something like it, a younger man in a sun mask plucked at a lyre, a blue skinned boy with a cow mask played the flute, and the man at the piano had no mask at all, but wore a white suit and mirrored sun-glasses.

            And then there were the guests. There must have been hundreds of them, maybe thousands: heroes dressed as monsters, gods dressed as demons, faeries dressed as angels. They milled about, talking in small groups, or sashaying wildly up and down the dance floor, and they spoke to Dream. Gabrielle couldn’t make out a queue of any kind, but every time she looked at the Lord Shaper’s throne, there was different envoy at his elbow, talking in low earnest tones.

            “It’s a Cinderella story,” said Gabrielle wonderingly.

            “Yep,” croaked a voice from somewhere above her head. “That’s why the boss agreed to help, I reckon.”

            Gabrielle looked up to see Matthew the raven perched on a carven cherub halfway up one of the big pillars that lined either side of the hall.

            “What do you mean?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

            The bird shrugged his wings. “The boss doesn’t like Desire much. It tried to get his predecessor killed, see? Sort worked I guess, ‘cause here we are. But anyway, he doesn’t like it much. But he loves stories. Especially myths and faerie tales and that. So when you came in here asking for the faerie godmother treatment…the boss just couldn’t help himself.”

            “Oh,” said Gabrielle. “I see. Tell him thanks, I guess. By the by, have you seen…”

            “Over by the punchbowl. He’s talking to his sister.”

            “Thanks Matthew,” said Gabrielle. Matthew made the wing shrug gesture again.

            “Don’t thank me. I’ve seen what happens to mortals who fall for an Endless. It ain’t pretty.”      

            And with that he flapped off in the direction of the library.

            Gabrielle walked, heart hammering, down the length of the buffet table, dodging a heavily built, redheaded man who appeared to be trying to balance a keg of ale on top of his little party plate without success. It wasn’t long before she found who she was looking for.

            He stood almost motionless, his elfin face stony and indescribably lovely. He wore the same cowled robe, the same chain around his wrist, but he seemed older somehow than she remembered, as though ageless, he had nevertheless aged with her. In the crook of one arm he carried the same heavy book and on his face he wore a mask shaped like a tiger moth.

            At his side stood a girl, though stood is perhaps not the right word. She quivered, taking little half steps or swaying gently from side to side, apparently oblivious to the rhythms of any music. She was as pale as he was, with sunken eyes and fine hair that drifted like Dream’s did, but hers was dyed in pink and green and indigo. She wore a leather jacket and fishnet stockings, but over them she had on wool socks, knee-high and warm looking. One was green, the other striped. Her mask was of a goldfish. She looked about fourteen.

            “Oh hallo miss and Mrs. and mistress,” the girl burbled as Gabrielle drew near. “No spinning to do today?”

            “Sister, I have already explained the concept of a masquerade to you twice this evening,” said Destiny, and his voice was like some deep woodwind instrument. “Please try to concentrate a little better. Good evening miss,” he added to Gabrielle.

            “Good evening to you both,” said Gabrielle. “I am Gabrielle Toeval.” She stuck out her hand and Destiny shook it. His hands were smooth as vellum, but his grip was strong.

            “I am Destiny of the Endless and this my youngest sister, Delirium,” he said.

            “He’s Mister Flutternight and I’m Gulpo the fish king,” Delierum explained. “Because we’re in masks, see?” She lifted up her mask to demonstrate. “But really we’re who he said we are. Mostly, anyway.”

            “I see,” said Gabrielle, smiling in spite of herself. “And would Mister Flutternight do me the honor of sharing the next dance?”

            “I do not dance,” said Destiny at the same time Delirium said, “Oh, he doesn’t dance.”

            “What, never?” asked Gabrielle.

            “Never,” agreed Delirium. “I’ve known him for a million squillion years, and I’ve seen stars collide and phoenixes being born and whole forests that could walk and talk and things you wouldn’t never believe, but I’ve never once seen him dance.”

            “Would you like me to teach you?” said Gabrielle, her eyes still on Destiny’s face.

            And on the other side of room, leaning negligently against the muscled abdomen of a minor war god, Desire glanced over to where Destiny stood and blew tiny spark from the tip of its cigarette.

            “I am always willing to learn, lady Gabrielle,” said Destiny.

            He slipped his heavy tome into a leather satchel at his waist, which had not been there a moment before, and let Gabrielle steer him out onto the dance floor. The man at the piano flashed them a wicked grin and plunged into something that sounded like equal parts waltz and wildfire.

            “He’s dancing! Mister Flutternight is dancing!” Delirium howled with delight and she drifted up towards the vaulted ceiling like a runaway balloon. Her silvery laugh echoed throughout the hall, mad and fey and intoxicating. “I wouldn’t have believed it in a million squillion years! He’s actually dancing!”


	5. Stave V: Fragments

            Gabrielle led Destiny by the hand, as the other guests began to drift in ones and twos towards the doors. She led him up the stairs to her tower chamber and sat him on the foot of her bed. She took off his mask and set it with her own on the bedside table. She pulled back his cowl and unwound the bandage from about his eyes. They shone, pearly white, in the dimness of that bedroom. His dark hair was shaven close to the scalp, like a Buddhist monk’s. Gabriella ran her hands over it, enjoying the velvety prickling. She stooped and kissed him then, full upon the mouth, and was surprised to find him trembling. They clung to each other, the pale man and the cinnamon girl, clung to each other like the twin halves of maple seed, one being with two souls.

            Later, hours or years, Gabrielle opened her eyes. A full moon, the color of a new penny, was rising outside the tower window, filling the room with gentle light. Destiny lay beside her, unrobed, his sightless eyes, for once, shut fast. The heavy book, still chained to his wrist, lay between them like a child that has crawled into bed with its parents.

            Curious, Gabrielle opened the book as quietly as she could manage. Almost of its own accord, the heavy tome fell open to a page a little over half way through its volume. By the yellow moonlight, Gabrielle read,

            “ _Almost of its own accord, the heavy tome fell open…”_

The letters were handwritten, small and spidery. Gabrielle turned a few pages, wonderingly. A sentence caught her eye.

            “ _She knelt down beside the headstone and ran her fingers over the carven letters: Roger Hughes._

_‘He never listened,” she whispered, ‘I tried to tell him Manny was trouble, but he never listened. God, if I’d only been there…’”_

A hand reached over and closed the book with a snap. Gabrielle looked up into Destiny’s glaucous gaze. The lines of his face were hard and sharp.

            “Gabrielle, what are you doing?”

            “It said that Roger dies,” said Gabrielle, ignoring the question. “That he dies tonight, because I’m here.”

            “If the book says it, it is true,” said Destiny, laying a hand gently on Gabrielle’s shoulder. “Was he your friend?”

            “He still is,” said Gabrielle.

            Destiny smiled sadly. “For a little while, yes. But all things are for a little while with mortals. You are like the frost ferns on a windowpane at dawn.”

            “’Dust in the wind?’” Gabrielle said bitterly. “Is that all we are? Is that all I am to you?”

            “I…” Destiny faltered, his pearly eyes dimming. He glanced down at the closed book, then back up at Gabrielle. “You are precious to me,” he said. “

            “Then help me,” Gabrielle told him.

            Destiny shook his head. “I cannot change what is written.”

            “You can change what its read,” Gabrielle told him. “A thing is not complete until it is observed. Even the mortals have learned that much. You are the observer. You have a choice.”

            “A choice?” said Destiny. There was a strange echo is his voice, and then Gabriele suddenly found herself facing two Destinies seated side by side.

            “I choose you over all else,” said one at the same moment the other said “There are no choices for me.”

            Then both Destinies looked at each other and screamed. The sound was high and old and not even slightly human. Gabrielle clapped her hands to her ears, but she could not tear her eyes away.

            The two Destinies shimmered and then there were four. One flew at the others, his nails raking at their blind eyes and another turned on Gabrielle, his hand drawing back into a fist but a third cried “No!” and tackled his brother to the stone floor of the chamber and the last simply sank to his knees, his face in his hands. And then there were eight. And sixteen. And more.

            Gabrielle felt time and space bulging ripping around her, like a rotten sack overstuffed with stones. The bed heaved pitched, a storm tossed vessel, and in a panic she reached out to grab something that was not there…

            Gabrielle awoke in her own bed, a fat handful of earth and salt gripped in either fist. She leapt up at once and dialed Roger on her cellphone, even as she shoved her feet into slippers and pulled on her black raincoat. The phone rang once, twice, then there was a click and a bleary voice said, “Gabby?”

            “Roger?” Gabrielle asked, her voice cracking with relief.

            “It’s me Gabby,” said Roger, starting to sound concerned. “What’s going on?”

            “I…just stay where you are, okay? You’re inside right? Just stay there and don’t let anyone in. I’ll come to you. And stay on the line. Is Manny there?”

            “Gabby, you’re scaring me,” Roger told her. “Manny’s at the bar. What’s happened?”

            “You’re in danger,” Gabrielle told him curtly. “I’ll explain when I get there.”

            On the other side of town, Roger looked around his empty flat and raised his eyebrows. But he trusted Gabby. She was his friend.

            “Okay,” he said. “But it had better be good.”

            Fifteen minutes later, Gabrielle was sprinting up the stairs of Roger’s building, cellphone still clutched in one salty hand and her curly hair damp from the light drizzle outside.

            “I’m here,” she gasped into the phone as she came to halt outside Roger’s door.

            “Okay, hang on,” Roger’s voice crackled back. She heard footsteps from the far side of the closed door. To her surprise, she also heard footsteps from the stairwell. She turned to see a tall man in a leather jacket just stepping out onto the landing. In his hand was a gun. Behind her, Gabrielle heard the door to Roger’s flat swing open. The man must have been a professional because he did not startle or even hesitate. He brought the gun up in a smooth motion, training it on Roger’s chest.

            But Gabrielle had been forewarned. She had begun moving before she had even consciously registered what the stranger was holding. She threw the cell phone as hard as she could and lunged forward, crossing the gap between herself and the hired killer in a blur.

            The phone caught the man on the shoulder and his first shot went wide. A ceiling light shattered, the tinkle of breaking glass lost in the echo of the firearm’s roar. Gabrielle collided with the gunman. He shoved her away, one-handed, as if she weighed no more than a china doll, then rammed the gun barrel into her belly. She felt the cold metal through the thin fabric of her pajama shirt. Then she felt the pain.


	6. Stave VI: Bindings

            “Hello,” said a woman’s voice.

            Gabrielle opened her eyes. She was lying on a hard bench under the plastic roof of a bus shelter. She could not remember how she came to be here, but she was reassured to see that it was still dark and drizzling. Not much time could have passed. She looked around for the woman who had spoken and saw her leaning against the sign that told everyone what time the bus they wanted would fail to arrive punctually at.

            The woman was not very tall, but she stood as though she was, which could fool you if you weren’t as clear sighted as Gabrielle. She was dressed a little bit like one of the city’s goths, with knee-high black boots, black jeans, and a black tank top. Her earrings, which were shaped like little Egyptian ankhs, were silver.

            “Do you know,” the woman said, “You’re not supposed to be here?”

            Gabrielle thought she sounded a little bit English, but it was hard to tell. The woman’s eyes and hair were very dark and her skin might have been the surface of the moon, save for the tattoos at the corners of those eyes.

            “I’m not?” Gabrielle asked, sitting up.

            The woman shook her head, though she was smiling. She had a wistful, cherubic smile. “Nope. I was supposed to be collecting a Mr. Roger Hughes, just turned twenty-four, killed in gang related nonsense because he happened to be sleeping with a man selling cocaine to the wrong set of customers.”

            “Is that right?” asked Gabrielle, staring past the woman. She couldn’t make out any cars on the far side of the street or even, come to think of it, any buildings.

            The woman nodded. “Only now you’re here instead.”

            “Sorry,” said Gabrielle.

            The woman shook her head again. “No you aren’t.”

            She came and sat by Gabrielle. The misty rain did not seem to have even moistened her pale skin. Gabrielle turned to her.

            “So what happens now?”

            The woman shrugged. “Not sure. We’re off-script now. But you can’t stay here for long. These kinds of places don’t last.”

            “Can you send me somewhere else?” asked Gabrielle.

            The woman gave her a calculating look. “Could be. Got anywhere to stay?”

            “There’s a garden,” said Gabrielle. “A garden with many paths.”

            “There is,” the woman agreed. “Could be dangerous at the moment though.”

            Gabrielle ignored this. “Is Roger okay?”

            “For now,” the woman said neutrally. “He’s tougher than you knew.”

            “Good,” said Gabrielle. “Then can we go?”

            Death nodded and took Gabrielle by the hand. They walked together down the street of empty night and when they reached the end they were in the garden.

            It was always twilight there, between the long hedges of rosemary and the marble colonnades, always twilight but with no shadows as though the setting sun were somehow at high noon as well. Usually, the garden was silent as well, but now there was noise in the distance: jingling metal and, every now and then, a whimper.

            “This way,” said Death. She lead Gabrielle confidentially down first one path and then another, drawing ever closer to the source of the noise. After at time, long or short Gabrielle could not say, they arrived on the green lawn before a round building of white stone roofed in tiles like dragon’s scales. On the lawn, five figures were gathered, standing close together without speaking. _Like family members waiting outside a sickroom,_ thought Gabrielle.

            “How is he?” Death asked as they drew level.

            “Not good,” said a red-haired, bearded man. He wore a dusty apron, as though he had been just pulled away from bricklaying or the completion a statue. “We’ve bound him by his sigil, but that’s only delaying the inevitable I’m afraid.”

            “If someone hadn’t decided to start meddling again…” groused the squat, pale woman, who was idly scoring the flesh of her pendulous breasts with a hooked ring of sharp metal.

            “Now see here…” snarled Desire, its lovely face curling into a vicious snarl.

            “Peace, sister-brother” said Dream, raising a calming hand. “We will only multiply our woes by fighting.”

            “Hey Death,” asked Delirium suddenly, startling the butterfly that had settled on her nose, “Why did you bring along Miss Three-Noses?”

            Gabrielle did not hear Death’s reply. She was walking towards the round building as though drawn by a lodestone. She could hear the whimpering drifting through the open doorway, knew whose voice it was. None of the Endless raised a hand to stop her as she crossed the threshold.

            There was one room in that place, one round room that could have been the size of coin or the size of the sun. In its center was a lectern of iron and on the lectern sat the book, heavy with the weight of words and of worlds.

            The Destinies were bound to the book. By now, a million chains sprang from the iron ring on its spine, a million chains that led to million shackles on a million wrists. And more were appearing. A forest of grey robed shapes stood pressed together, some struggling, some weeping, some as still as stone.

            _How long?_ Gabrielle wonder. _How long before they tear the book apart?_ She did not know what would happen then, but she doubted it would be pleasant. She took a shaky breath and stepped forward.

Searching a crowd for a particular face can be difficult. If the crowd is tens of millions strong and growing all the time, it can be very difficult. If all the faces look alike, it can be nearly impossible. But Gabrielle was good at seeing things. She stared hard at the sea of faces until she saw one she recognized. She’d seen that face at the crossroads one chilly, autumn afternoon. The boy with the book.

            Gabrielle went to him. She held him close and rocked him and stroked his close-cropped hair until all of the echoes had faded away. When they were alone she said,

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

            Destiny smiled weakly up at her. “I know.”

            He kissed her, clumsily, and she laughed and he laughed and they kissed again and cried a little because lovers are nothing if not ridiculous. At length Gabrielle said,

            “You know, I think I may be slightly dead.”

            Destiny shook his head. “Not anymore.” He picked up the great book and opened it to a certain page. He wet one finger from the tears still lingering on his pale cheek and carefully smudged out a few lines of inky letters. Then he slammed the tome shut and dropped into the satchel at his waist. He took Gabrielle’s hand in his and together they walked out into the gloaming to meet his family.


	7. Stave VII: The Close

            Roger Hughes was sitting in his sister’s living room watching the telephone. His sister and her husband were in the kitchen talking in low voices. He suspected that they were discussing him but couldn’t find the energy within himself to care. He’d arrived in the early hours of the morning, hollowed-eyed and drunk on his own exhaustion, his shirt stained with Gabrielle’s blood. He’d told them the story as best he could, though he’d already babbled most of it out over the phone, then slept like a dead thing in the spare bedroom until his sister had roused him for lunch. Now it was past dinnertime and there was still no word from hospital.

            There was a knock at the door. In the kitchen, Roger’s brother-in-law hesitated mid rumble. Roger sprang to his feet. He padded silently across the white carpet and down the hallway. He opened the door.

            Roger wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a scarecrow with a jack o’ lantern for a head smoking a foul cigar.

            “Roger Hughes?” the scarecrow asked.

            “Um…yes, that’s me,” said Roger nervously.

            “That what you’re wearing?” asked the scarecrow. Had it had a nose, Roger had the distinct impression that it would have wrinkled it in distaste.

            Roger looked at his clothes. He was wearing day-old blue jeans and one of his brother-in-law's t-shirts that hung loosely on him and his feet were bare.

            “Currently, yes,” he told the scarecrow, who shrugged.

            “Little informal for a wedding, but personally I don’t give a fuck. Anyway, we don’t got time for you to change. C’mon.”

            The scarecrow began to shamble off at high speed, heading for a white van parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant.

            “A wedding?” asked Roger, hurrying after it.

            “What you thought it’d be a baby shower already?” the scarecrow shot back. “Shit, now there’s a thought. I bet they end up making you godfather, eh?”

            The scarecrow laughed unpleasantly and climbed in behind the wheel of the car. The van’s rear windows were all tinted black. Roger hesitated, glancing back towards his sister’s house.

            “Get in,” the scarecrow ordered. “Didn’t I say we were in a hurry?”

            Roger gave a mental shrug and hopped in. To his surprise, the van was already occupied. An elderly satyr, with more white than grey in his curly beard, slid over to make room for him. On the satyr’s other side sat an ebony skinned woman with two pairs of ice blue eyes, one on her face and one on the tips of her bare breasts. The row behind them held a man-sized, chitinous creature a bit like a preying mantis, what appeared to an empty cardboard box, and a man with a crooked nose who Roger vaguely remembered being one of Gabrielle’s uncles, while the final row was in entirely occupied by an immense serpent with white, feathery wings.

            “Okay Merv,” said the German shepherd in passenger’s seat, “Hit it.”

            The scarecrow hit it and the van lurched forward. Roger had just time to fumble his seatbelt on before the wheels of the vehicle left the ground and they were soaring up into the night sky.

            “Where are we going?” Roger asked the satyr. The satyr shook his horned head and said something in Greek, but the woman beside him smiled and said,

            “Second to the right and straight on till morning.” She had a slight West Indian accent.

            Roger felt no less baffled but he settled back into his seat and watched the dark cloudscape swirl by. Gradually, he noticed the greys giving way to golds, as if they were indeed flying into the morning.

            Then the clouds parted and Roger gasped. There was an island, hanging supported in a bright but sunless sky, and from the island grew a giant tree. It was an ash tree, Roger thought, and there were things, like crystal balls or snow globes filled with stars, hanging from it like fruit. The van avoided these and came to rest on the smooth green lawn at the tree’s foot. There was a pool of water in among the tangled roots, each root wider than a highway. The pool was clear but dark, as if it had no bottom, and on its shore a strange gathering was being held.

            The scarecrow shooed his passengers from the van then wandered off, muttering something about a stiff drink. Roger picked his way through the crowd, who were resting in the shade of white tents or standing around in gossiping groups, each one speaking a different tongue. If anything, these guests were even stranger than those who’d been in the van with Roger, though he thought he recognized a few more cinnamon brown faces.

            Just then a trumpet sounded, a bright clarion note, and a shaft of light lanced down from a gap in the ash tree’s canopy. The crowd surged forward to get a better look as a winged figure descended through pillar of brilliant light, coming to rest a few feet above the ground. There was another note and the crowd parted like a biblical sea, forming a long aisle that ended just before the winged figure. Roger could not decide if the newcomer was male or female, though it was very beautiful, olive-skinned and dressed in robes of brilliant white.

            Someone nudged Roger in the ribs and he saw that he had ended up standing next to the old satyr in the row of people closest to the aisle. The satyr pointed and Roger saw two people at the aisle’s far end, walking slowly towards the waiting angel. One was a pale, elfin man in a robe the color of wood smoke. A slender chain ran from his wrist to leather bag at his waist.

            The other was Gabrielle.

            She smiled radiantly at Roger as she passed him, and tapped him lightly on the chest.

            “Glad you could make it,” she whispered.

            Then they passed on and stood before the angel who spoke not, but joined their hands and wove a thread of golden fire through their laced fingers, and sang the while, a wordless music of sorrow and of joy.

            “Roger? Roger?”

            Someone was shaking his shoulder. Roger opened his eyes. He was slumped against the arm of the couch in his sister’s living room. His sister was shaking him, gently, by the shoulder.

            “Roger, the hospital just called,” she told him. “Gabrielle’s going to be all right.”

            Roger just smiled at her. “I know.”


End file.
